An Elder Scrolls Fanfic: Blood and Purpose
by AnonElderScrollsFan
Summary: *Please read and review* In a world recovering from the return of Dragons, Vampires are forming an army to take the Ruby Throne, and a Daedric Prince prepares his armies for invasion...
1. Chapter 1

Lyana awoke. She quickly became aware that her hands were bound behind her back. Her head still throbbed from where the bandit had hit her with his sword pommel. She had been gathering ingredients for her adoptive father Elgrim who ran the alchemy shop in Riften when they had assaulted her. She had been orphaned early, her father had abandoned her mother who had died giving birth to her. She was taken into Honorhall Orphanage until Elgrim and his wife Hafjorg adopted her. A tear ran down her cheek as the harsh reality that she probably wouldn't ever see her adoptive parents again dawned on her.

"Is the little bitch crying?" snarled a bearded Nord sat on a fallen tree trunk and leaning on a large battleaxe. As her vision un-blurred she saw that there were another half a dozen or so bandits were sat around a large fire with a dead elk being revolved around on a spit-roast. "You'll have something to cry about soon, little girlie, I promise you that…" He was eyeing the young red haired Nord like she was a piece of meat and licking his mead soaked lips. "Tell me, girlie, how old are you?"

"Seventeen." She whimpered, not wanting to anger the bandit by not replying.

"Seventeen, eh? Are you a little virgin, girlie?" He sneered menacingly, advancing on her. She ignored him, focusing on getting out of her bindings. "I asked you a question… are - you - a - virgin?" His sneer became a vicious snarl as he got close enough for her to hear his rough breath.

"Yes." She could feel her bindings getting loose, she felt as if she had rope-burn to the bone. Her whimpering was now due to a combination of the emotional pain of her captivity and physical pain from her ropes.

"How has no one buried their cock in a pretty little thing like you? No matter, it's not like you're going to be a virgin for long…" He crouched down next to her. She knew what was coming next, but she didn't know how to prepare. Perhaps she should shut her eyes and pretend it was someone else. If she waited until he had exhausted himself she might be able to get away. "I'm going to fuck you girlie, I'm going to fuck you till I've split you in half like you're a piece of firewood." He was in her face now. She could feel his breath on her soft pale skin, it stank of Honningbrew Mead, which she silently vowed to never drink again if she survived.

As his rough hand began to run up her leg she tried to kick him away but he hit her in the face with the back of his hand. The blow was hard and hurt a lot but as it knocked her head to the side she saw a large rock that looked light enough to be picked up but heavy enough to deal some damage on impact. Before the bandit's hand could reach its destination and he could follow up on his threats he was interrupted by a thud over by where the rest of the bandits sat. Both Lyana and her captor looked over at the source of the noise.

The thud had been the head of one of the other bandits hitting the forest floor. The decapitated body was still sat in the same position as when it had been alive but now fell back with another louder thud. The decapitator was a Khajiit with orange and black tiger-like fur. He wore a suit of tight crimson and black leather armour with a black hand emblazoned on the chest that clung to his toned muscular form. In his hand was the sword that had just parted the unfortunate bandit's head from his shoulders. It was an Ebon-forged Akaviri Katana with the same red leather as his armour on the grip. The midnight black blade was still dripping with blood as the Khajiit raised it again as advanced on the other bandits.

The first bandit swung a greatsword at the Khajiit who ducked underneath the blade and cut his attacker across the stomach, and then rising back up as his enemy fell to the floor he brought his sword back and through the bandit's neck whilst keeping his yellow cat-like eyes fixed on the next bandit. The Khajiit's black feline lips curved into a smile as another head hit the floor followed by another headless corpse.

The bearded Nord abandoned Lyana and joined the other four remaining bandits, battleaxe in hand. She was almost out of her bindings when she realised that she wouldn't need her arms free to run, but she was somehow rooted to the spot, whether it was from fear or fascination she did not know but she continued to struggle with her bindings as she watched the five bandits advance on the one mysterious Khajiit.

"We take him together!" Commanded the Redguard that had knocked Leanna out with his pommel, who was apparently the leader.

The Khajiit's eyes flitted from bandit to bandit, studying their weapons: There was the Redguard leader who wielded a scimitar; an Argonian with a warhammer; a Dunmer with a shortsword; a Nord with a greatsword; and the Nord who just got up with a battleaxe.

They began attempting to surround their attacker and the evidently skilful Khajiit adjusted his stance, bending his knees slightly and raising his sword arm to shoulder height.

The Argonian swung first with his full force behind his hammer. In one seamless move the Khajiit ducked down and spun around as he dropped to his knee, swinging his blade with him. The Argonian and the Nord with the greatsword were caught in the swing and both of their intestines were spilled out on to the floor. As he rose he lunged for the Dunmer that was going to backstab him whilst he thought the Khajiit's attention would be drawn on the Argonian. His blade punctured through the Dark Elf and lifted him off his feet before he was thrown aside as the wielder turned to face his two remaining foes. He performed the move in a blur of red and black with an orange streak of his fur, moving like water, with agility and speed unnatural for even a Khajiit.

He advanced on the surviving Redguard and bearded Nord who were nervous at how quick the black and red clad killer had slaughtered their allies. The two warriors exchanged a nervous nod before attacking. The Redguard swung and the Khajiit blocked, locking swords with him. The Nord aimed a blow for the native of Elsweyr's waist and for a moment it seemed he had won as the Khajiit wouldn't be able to get his sword there in time, but he instead kicked the iron-clad barbarian in the chest and flung him through the air and into the mud where Lyana lay.

Lyana had now slipped out of her bindings and as her would-be-raper landed close to her. The Khajiit and Redguard broke away from each other and began to duel, scimitar to katana. The Khajiit disarmed and disembowelled the bandit leader without breaking a sweat and waited for the Nord to get up patiently as he spun his Ebon-forged blade round lazily.

Lyana grabbed the rock she saw earlier and pulled herself up. The Nord was pulling himself up on his axe as she silently advanced on him.

"This one is named Bjoten the Cruel?" The Khajiit's accent was strong but his words were clear.

"Yes… please-" His plea was cut short as Lyana struck the back of his unarmoured skull. The first blow knocked him to the dirt, the second drew blood, he was probably dead by the third but Lyana felt deep rage that she had not felt before boil up inside her. It made her blood boil and gave her strength she never knew she possessed. She had hit him three more times before the feeling wore off and she released the rock and slunk back down. She felt her own blood from her wrists mingle with the blood of the man that was now splattered over her. She had just caved in someone's skull, ended a life for ever. And she had enjoyed it.

The voice of the Khajiit snapped her back to reality. She looked up at him, he was studying her intently. "Does this girl have a name?"

"Lyana."

"A pretty name. This one is Do'hjar. A not so pretty name"

"Thank you, Do'hjar, he would have raped me if it wasn't for you. I may never be able to repay that debt. My father is not a rich man but-"

"Do'hjar has no need for your father's coin, I assure this one." He approached her and pulled out a small vial of liquid from a pouch on his belt beside his now sheathed sword. "Is this one hurt?"

Now that the thought crossed her mind her wrists still stung from the ropes and her head still throbbed from the scimitar pommel. She accepted the vial and swigged it down in a single gulp. She ignored the bad taste and felt the pain die away immediately from her wrists and head. After working as an alchemist's assistant for the majority of her life she knew her potions but had never encountered anything as strong.

"Who brewed this?"

"This one would not know them. Perhaps you will though after this." He indicated to the bandit Lyana had killed.

The Nord girl rose to her feet and looked around at the dense woods of the Rift. "I do not know the way back to Riften from here…"

"Do'hjar does. But we do not return to Riften." He said sinisterly

"What?" She felt like the terrified little virgin again, completely at the mercy of a complete stranger. Up until that point she had a feeling of trust for Do'hjar.

"Do'hjar was sent to kill Bjoten the Cruel. His life was property of Do'hjar's brotherhood. A life you took, a life that must be repaid." He drew his sword again with a screech of the ebon-forged blade being dragged across steel band at the top of the sheath.

Before Lyana could run or defend herself for the second time that day someone knocked her unconscious with the pommel of their sword.


	2. Chapter 2

The cold winds from the Sea of Ghosts blew towards Skyrim. They blew across the dark waters towards Haafingar and the mighty city of Solitude. The icy winds whirled around the ancient fortress of Castle Volkihar. The fortress was covered in a veil of mist and made from dark stones. Bone-Hawks flew around the Castle that would frequently fly to the mainland to gather information for the Lord of Volkihar.

The Lord was currently sat in a meeting room of sorts near to his personal quarters. Lord Harkon Volkihar did not sit alone, at his table were his advisers Vingalmo and Orthjolf along with his steward Garan Marethi.

He had sent emissaries to the nineteen other great Vampire Clans of Tamriel. He had requested that the other Clans send him reinforcements. He would never consider asking for help from the other Dark Lords or the secretive Vampyrum Order of Cyrodiil or dark Glenmoril Wyrd of High Rock under normal circumstances, but these were not normal circumstances. He was going to fulfil a prophecy written in an Elder Scroll known as The Tyranny of the Sun. It dictated that a powerful Vampire Lord would block out the sun and Vampires would rule the world.

"What word from the other Clans? Have the Lords of Iliac Bay offered any support to our cause?" He asked as he turned to Orthjolf, who had been sent to that region.

"No, my lord. They have sworn loyalty to Lord Calliux Artellius of Deepscorn Hollow."

Harkon's face had been affected by vampirism in the way most of the Volkihars was, his nose was bat-like, his eyes were burning orange and his skin was now pale and wrinkled. The transformation meant that he could rarely display emotion facially, but to the other three Vampires the Pure Blooded Vampire Lord was clearly showing one expression. Complete and utter shock.

"Are you trying to tell me that a 200 year old who was infected by some petty savage has united Nine Clans who have been killing each other since before the time of King Lysandus?"

"He challenged the old Lords and defeated them all in one on one combat. He positioned those loyal to him as the Lords of Clan Anthotis, Clan Garlythi, Clan Haarvenu, Clan Khulari, Clan Lyrezi, Clan Montalion, Clan Selenu, Clan Tharfey and Clan Vraseth. He has declared himself as Shadow-Lord of Iliac Bay. The Glenmoril Wyrd refuse to join him, but also refuse to send us aid."

Harkon turned to Garan Marethi, hoping that the Dunmer Clans would be more helpful. "What of your people, Garan? Have the Lords in the East been of anymore use than the Lords in the West?"

"Lady Dhaunaye Aundae sails personally with the entire Aundae Clan, my lord."

Harkon found himself bewildered for the second time that day. "Lady Aundae sails in person. With the entire Clan, why?"

"Raxle Berne and his Clan joined Calliux the moment he set foot on the Isle of Vvardenfell. The Shadow-Lord also wants control of Vvardenfell, apparently, he has challenged and killed Lady Volrina Quarra and positioned one of his lieutenants as Lord of Clan Quarra. Lady Aundae fears for her position."

"If Calliux really wants to kill her we do not have the forces to stop him." Orthjolf added, worry apparent in his voice.

"I am aware of that. Out of the twenty great Clans of Tamriel this _boy_, a boy who doesn't even belong to a Clan,now commands eleven of them. He has no intention of hunting her down though, Orthjolf, you can rest easy. All he wants are her feeding grounds."

"How has he been so successful?" Vingalmo muttered to no one in particular.

"He has a certain talent for combat. Undefeated, they say." Orthjolf replied to his rival.

"If he was undefeated he'd still have both eyes." Garan countered.

Harkon nodded in agreement. Calliux Artellius was renowned to be a fierce warrior and excellent swordsman. He was the younger brother of the legendary Sir Titus Artellius. The Dark Lord of Clan Volkihar was no coward but he wouldn't have dared to cross blades with Titus, even if he had an army at his back. Luckily for him he wouldn't have to, the Champion of Cyrodiil and Knight of the Imperial Dragon had disappeared in the early days of the Fourth Era.

"We need him as an ally." Harkon stated.

"We may have before long, my lord," Vingalmo piped up with, "although he was in Iliac Bay whilst I was in Cyrodiil I managed to gain an audience with Uzgahk the Dread, one of his chief lieutenants. He was entrusted with safeguarding Deepscorn in Calliux's absence."

"And?" Harkon was irritated that Vingalmo had waited until now to tell him of this potential alliance.

"He will journey to Calliux's base of command on the Isle of Balfiera. After that he will come to us as an emissary," Vingalmo continued with his report after Harkon indicated for him to, "the Cyrodiil Vampyrum Order has no Lord but the member I gained an audience with says that our kind has survived since the time of the Blood Matron by remaining hidden, not by fulfilling ancient prophecies. And it seems the Bosmeri Lords of Clans Bonsamu, Keerlith, Yekef and Telboth are too busy fighting over the feeding grounds of Valenwood to make alliances."

Harkon turned to Garan, "Any other alliances I need to know about?"

"The Whet-Fangs of Black Marsh sent a hundred guerrilla warfare specialists, and ask that their lord is given the title of King of Black Marsh if you are successful, and that Clan Volkihar ensures no other Clans set foot in Black Marsh whether you are successful or not."

Harkon smiled. Lord Fang-Maw was a longstanding ally of Harkon. The Whet-Fangs were masters of guerrilla warfare and frequently took out greater numbers than their own on their constant raiding parties.

"So what are our final numbers?"

"Our six thousand Warriors and half that amount of Thralls, and the twelve members of court; the seven hundred Sorcerers and Battlemages of Clan Aundae, along with Lady Dhaunaye; and a hundred Whet-Fang Guerrilla Fighters. By my arithmetic that will make nine thousand, eight hundred and thirteen when the others arrive."

As Harkon opened his mouth to talk the door to the meeting room burst open and struck the cold stone wall with a loud thud. Feran Sadri stood there, his burning orange eyes wide with a look somewhere between shock and excitement. "Pardon, my lord, but Lady Serana has returned."


	3. Chapter 3

Shadowmere came to a halt outside of the Falkreath Dark Brotherhood sanctuary. Do'hjar dismounted his steed and pulled the unconscious woman that had been slung over the black mere's rear like a dead stag from a hunt over his shoulder. She was light and the Khajiit could carry her with ease. He made his way to the Black Door and Shadowmere made her way back into the dark pool near to the sanctuary and returned to the Void until she was needed again.

"Innocence, brother." Do'hjar didn't even give the door a chance to as its question before he had opened it and slipped inside.

He struggled to carry her down the narrow stairway but was successful and walked out to the large entrance area at the start of the sanctuary. Astrid, the leader of the sanctuary, sat at her stone desk on a similarly bleak and cold chair. She was rifling through pages of contracts and writing on them with a quill, most likely dishing them out to the various sanctuary members. She looked up as Do'hjar delicately placed Lyana in one of the wooden chairs closer to the door.

"Who, exactly, is the person you brought into our sanctuary without permission?"

"Lyana. Seventeen. Virgin. Poor father."

"How does any of that help me?"

"Do'hjar never said it would, but this is what I know about her."

Astrid got up from her chair and walked over to where the Khajiit stood.

"You know so little and yet you bring her to our sanctuary?"

"Do'hjar has good cause. She stole the contract from this one, and a soul from the Dread Father. She must repay it."

"You let a little girl steal your kill? Have you lost your touch, brother?"

"Never. I was going to give him a slow death, a rapist deserves such suffering. Do'hjar thought this sister would understand that."

Astrid's face became cold and hard. "I told you never to mention that."

"Not speaking of it will not undo what happened to this sister. Regardless, this girl was almost raped. The man that almost raped her now has nothing solid remaining of his head, she is not afraid to kill in defence, perhaps she will kill for the Dread Father."

"So you want me to induct her into our dysfunctional little family?"

"Yes. This one kills for us or we kill her. Both ways the Dread Father receives a soul, and we cannot afford to turn down potential recruits with our Brotherhood's current situation."

"Very well, I will test her. Have Nazir pick out the most 'innocent' of our contracts for me… I know a way to test her."

Do'hjar smiled knowingly. He turned left the leader of his sanctuary alone with the unconscious girl.

* * *

The Whiterun City gates were forced open with a creak. The two guards on either side looked round to see who was coming into the city late in the evening. The guards recognised the bone-armoured man and bowed their heads. "My Thane." Their voices were muffled from behind their helmets but still distinguishable.

The Thane of Whiterun and Harbringer of the Companions nodded his head respectfully and walked through the gates and straight to the door of Breezehome. He would visit his Shield-Siblings in Jorrvaskr tomorrow, he decided, but after battling through an entire army of Alduin's Draugr before battling the World-Eater himself, all he wanted for now was a rest. He was still wearing his thickly plated Dragonbone Armour, now chipped from combat. He had worn the heavy armour all the way from High Hrothgar to Whiterun. The Greybeards may have attended to his wounds but he didn't get much rest on one of the cold stone beds of their mountain monastery.

He opened the door to his home and walked inside, deeply inhaling the scent of roasting meat. As he locked the door again behind him and heard the voice of his Housecarl greet him he knew he was truly home.

"Greetings, my Thane."

"Greetings, my Housecarl." He mocked her formal tone. "You can call me by my name, Lydia."

"Yes, my Tha-" His ice-blue eyes cut her off with a humoured look. "Skalrn." She finished.

"Better. Now, what are you cooking."

"Venison. Would you care to join me, Skalrn."

"I appreciate your offer, but you have only prepared enough meat for yourself."

"Forgive me, my thane, but I did not know that you would return this evening."

"There is nothing to forgive, I was merely stating a fact. I'm not hungry anyway. Wake me if I am still asleep by mid-day."

"Of course, Skalrn."

The Dragonborn made his way up the stairs and walked into his bedroom. He pulled his helm off let lose his shaggy mane of hair. Until they reached below his shoulders it was impossible to tell where the beard ended and the hair began. They were both decorated with Nordic plaits and were fiery-red, a stark contrast to his ice-blue eyes. He placed his helmet down on the bedside table and collapsed onto his bed. He shut he eyes and slowly drifted off to an uneasy sleep.

* * *

_A great yellow eye stared at Skalrn. The eye was surrounded by slimy green tentacles that seemed to taste the air around them. The eye blinked slowly and faded. Skalrn became aware he now stood in a river up to his ankles. He looked down and saw that the water was in fact blood. He heard the sloshing of someone wading toward through the blood towards him and turned. The man was taller and broader than Skalrn yet he had the tan and black hair of an Imperial. He wore no helm but from the neck down he wore ornate ebony, gold and silver armour that was more magnificent to look on than any other armour the Dragonborn had ever seen. It seemed fit for an Emperor. His chest plate was emblazoned with the golden Dragon of the Empire and his gold silk cape bore the same symbol in black._

_Much of the man's face was obscured by a neatly pointed black beard. One feature that was clearly visible, however, were his dark blue eyes that stared at Skalrn with a look of fury. He drew a sword from his belt and advanced upon the Nord. Skalrn reached for his blade and raised it just in time. Steel and Dragonbone met with a loud clang. Skalrn was staggered back by his opponent's strength but regained his balance and secured his grip in both hands. The stranger opened his mouth, "My Thane?" his voice was deep and rumbling, "My Thane?" his voice grew disturbingly feminine as he repeated the title..._

* * *

"My Thane?"

Lydia's voice snapped Skalrn back into conscience. As he looked down he realised that he was now sat up on his fur bed with his Dragonbone-bladed longsword, Dovahkriid (_Dragonslayer)_, gripped in both hands in a defensive stance. He re-sheathed his sword and climbed off the bed. "Apologies, Lydia."

"Another nightmare, my Thane?" The Housecarl wore a simple dress in stead of her usual Nordic steel armour.

"No. I have been free of those since I cured my Lycanthropy."

"What did you dream of, my Thane?"

"I was fighting someone. Someone strong. But that's all I remember. And enough with the bloody 'Thane' for Nine's sake."

"Yes, Skalrn. I awoke you at mid-day as you asked, and have prepared you a meal downstairs."

"Your too kind, Lydia, and I appreciate everything you do for me, but you're a Housecarl, not a servant."

"My Th- Skalrn, you have saved my life more times than I can count-"

"You would never have been in danger if I hadn't led you in to it." He cut across.

"No, I would have been twiddling my thumbs at Dragonsreach... You took me on adventures like the ones I dreamed of going on when I was a little girl, hearing the songs of the heroes of old. You have given me memories I will carry to the grave and stories to tell my grandchildren one day if Gods be good. Thank you, my Thane."

He smiled at her warmly but before he could return the compliment she added, "And besides, you're a terrible cook." before turning and leaving back towards her own bedroom to get changed into her armour.

He picked up his helmet and made his way down the stairs. Lydia had used some of the left-over venison from last night and placed slices of it of buttered bread, still warm from Carlotta's oven. He ate the bread and meat gratefully and left out the door: he would pay a visit to his Shield-Siblings. Perhaps he should buy something from Fralia Grey-Mane to thank Lydia on his way back.

Most people seemed surprised to see him as he shut the door behind him. He had left Whiterun riding a Dragon with the intent of pursuing the World-Eater into Sovngarde. It wasn't surprising most people didn't expect to see him four days later with a few scratches on his armour and one badly damaged pauldron from Alduin's bite, but apparently unharmed. If they had seen the condition he was in after his battle they would have a different idea.

"You there! Are you the one they call Dragonborn?" Two masked and robed men approached Skalrn.

"Yes, I am Dragonborn."

"Your lies fall on deaf ears, deceiver! The true Dragonborn comes... you are but his shadow. When Lord Miraak appears all shall bear witness. None shall stand to oppose him!"

The masked man pulled out his dagger and stabbed for Skalrn. He didn't have enough time to draw his sword so he caught his attacker's wrist with his left hand and knocked him to the ground with a mighty right-hook. The other masked man had drew a longsword whilst his companion hit the floor and now attempted a diagonal chop. Skalrn raised the thick plate of his gauntlet that covered his forearm in defence. The moonstone blade was deflected of the Dragonbone without leaving a scratch. The swordsman pressed the attack with a powerful chop straight down. Skalrn sidestepped the blow, unhindered by his heavy armour, and hooked one of his powerful arms around his enemy's throat. With one sharp twist he snapped his neck and killed him. The other man got up, still slightly dazed, and began firing arcs of lightning at Skalrn, who had now drawn his sword. The masked man was attempting to put distance between himself and the Nord. This was of no concern to the Dragonborn, however.

_**"WULD NAH KEST" **_

The Whirlwind Sprint shout carried him forward with great speed. He channelled the momentum of the shout into a Thu'um infused shoulder barge. He sent the masked attacker to the ground with a hard thud and before he could rise he rammed the point of his blade through his chest.

He released his grip on the sword and allowed it to stay stabbed through the man as he searched through his pockets to try and find something to identify him by. His hand enclosed around a roughly folded note in one of the pockets of his robe:

* * *

_Board the vessel Northern Maiden docked at Raven _

_Rock. __Take it to Windhelm, then begin your search. _

_Kill the false Dragonborn known as Skalrn before _

_he reaches Solstheim. __Return with word of your_

_ success and Miraak __will be most pleased._

* * *

Skalrn read the note carefully. They referred to him as the 'false Dragonborn'. The fact that he had outshouted Alduin himself and so far consumed over 200 Dragon souls would make him doubt he was 'fake'. Regardless, Miraak had tried to have him killed. He pulled his sword from the dead man's chest and walked back into Breezehome where Lydia was sharpening her own sword with a whetstone.

"You're back early."

Skalrn sat down beside his loyal Housecarl. His tone serious and grim he spoke. "I was attacked on my way to Jorrvaskr. I need you to look after Breezehome on your own again for a while. I have to ride to Windhelm."

"Let me go with you." She said suddenly.

"I can't," He rose from his chair and pulled a long, grey travelling cape of one of the hooks near the door, "it's to dangerous. There is something at work here beyond Dragons or Men."

"Goodbye then, my Thane." She said. She was hurt, he knew, but he rather have her hurt than dead.

He turned to her, "Goodbye, my Housecarl."


	4. Chapter 4

Uzgahk stepped into the training room, armoury and personal quarters of his lord. It was the first room that Lord Calliux had had decorated, if you could call it that. On the left-hand side there was his coffin, desk and chair- all made from fine mahogany. on the right-hand side of the room there was targets and training dummies. The back wall opposite the wall was covered in weapon racks. There was everything from daggers to longspears, warhammers to rapiers, and everything in-between, all forged from Ebony. There must have been at least one of each type of melee weapon in existence, and Calliux had mastered them all.

The lord was currently practising with a war axe, a weapon he rarely used. Calliux looked like the lethal killer and dangerous Vampire was, he wore all black and his short and scruffy hair and beard were both black. His face was gaunt and his skin was pale, but he was just as muscular as Uzgahk and slightly taller, nearing seven foot. His right eye was bright scarlet and his left was pure white with a deep scar running over it. His impressive armour consisted of Ebon-forged chainmail with each link smaller than a baby's fingernail. Over the top of his mail he wore a tunic, a pair of fingerless gloves, greaves and boots all made from black leather that was studded with Ebony and reinforced by hidden plates of the tough metal.

The armour was unscratched and looked fresh forged. This wasn't due to not being used, but no-one being able to land a blow.

Uzgahk's armour was almost unscratched, but that wasn't due to exceptional skill like his lord but because most people aimed for his chest, gut, shoulders and back which were all bare. He wore fingerless fur gloves up to his elbows with spiked Orcanium vambraces strapped over the top and full Orcish heavy armour from the waist down that was decorated with multiple furs. The other decorations that he wore were hanging off his belt, the skulls of some of his victims. The Orc felt no pain and had survived wounds that would kill most. He had been named Uzgahk the Dread for the fear he instilled in combat, fighting with his bare hands, tearing people limb from limb and delivering punches that shattered bone like it was glass and had more of an impact than a warhammer.

The animalistic Orc-Vampire not only drank his victim's blood but ate their flesh. Dried blood still stained his large tusks and the area around his mouth. He kept his face and head clean shaved to draw attention to the two rows of spikes that ran along his brows and cheekbones. Vampirism had faded the Orc's skin to pale pea green and turned his eyes to the same scarlet red as his lord. The look of him made most enemies flee.

"Lord Calliux." He said in his animalistic snarl of a voice, bowing his head to the Imperial-Vampire.

"Uzgahk, I trust you have good reason for abandoning the post I gave you?" He stopped swinging his war axe and turned to face his lieutenant.

"Yes, my lord. Lord Harkon of Clan Volkihar wants to fulfil the Tyranny of the Sun. He requests warriors from the other Clans to lend aid."

"He has been chasing that prophecy for longer than most of the other Clans have existed, what of it?"

"The Dragonborn possesses an Elder Scroll. Harkon believes that he can use it to locate the Scrolls he lost."

Calliux placed the war axe back beside a large battleaxe on one of the weapon racks as he walked over to his chair and sat behind his desk. "Why have you come? A courier could have delivered that message."

"I came to offer advice, my lord."

"What advice, that he is a fanatic that allowed his wife and daughter to be raped, because he wanted power? Or do you want me to aid him."

"I do." Uzgahk stated.

"Do you think he could do it? Take the throne?" Calliux seemed distant as he stared at the wall of weapons.

"Perhaps, with the aid of your men. Or perhaps you could take it for yourself with the aid of his Scrolls." Suggested Uzgahk.

"Piss on that," Calliux snarled, becoming focused again, "I'm a killer, not a ruler."

"And yet you control Iliac Bay and Vvardenfell."

"No, I control the Clans," Calliux corrected, "the mortals control their land as they always will. And I will always be there, the terror of the night. The predator does not rule the prey, he just kills them."

There was a brief pause before Calliux spoke again.

"The last time I lost a fight was over two centuries ago," he ran his hand over the scar that ran through his left eye, "the mortals will hunt out every one of our kind when the sun goes dark, we will have to fight hard, and Sheogorath condemn me if I miss the opportunity."

"Sheogorath? Why do you show respect to him, not Molag Bal, our Kin-Father?"

"I have good reason to respect him above the others. Now, ready our fastest ship, a crew of Thralls and my personal guard. Have the rest of our ships ready, as soon as Harkon is ready I will call upon all of our warriors and any free Vampires wishing to join our cause."

Uzgahk's tusked and fanged mouth curved into what was closest that it could get to a smile as he turned and left.

* * *

Harkon's black cape billowed behind him as he walked toward the main hall of Castle Volkihar. The three advisers behind him were practically sprinting to keep up with him.

His long strides carried him to the hall in a matter of seconds. He descended the steps and walked out between the feast tables, lined with dying Thralls and flagons of blood.

His eyes met with a pair as bright as his own. "Serana… my daughter?"

He noticed the large jewelled white object on her back.

"Is that..."

"Yes. Father, it is the Scroll."

Harkon stood utterly bewildered yet again. He was closer today to completing the Tyranny of the Sun than he had been since his wife left with his two Scrolls and his daughter.

"Where did your traitorous mother take you?"

"A crypt. She gave me the Scroll and locked me away, she took the other one. I really don't care anymore though."

"And who was it that freed you, the Vampire Hunter there?" He indicated to the High Elf behind his daughter. He wore the robes of a Master of Destruction mage with a heavy Dawnguard pauldrons fastened over the top. His braided hair was almost as golden as his skin and his yellow almond shaped eyes had a slight green tint on the irises.

"Actually, it was." The elf's voice was deceptively soft. His mastery of most forms of Magic and unmatched skill with Destruction spells made him potentially as lethal as the Dark Lord that stood before him.

"I see. Step forward."

The Altmer took a step forward.

"Who might you be?"

"You first." The elf met Harkon's black and burning orange stare unflinchingly.

"I am Harkon, Lord of Clan Volkihar."

"I am Sinewynn."

"And tell me, Sinewynn, why has a Vampire Hunter brought my daughter back to me, not your commanders?"

"I killed one of your kind once-"

"I think most Dawnguard have." Harkon chuckled.

"You misunderstand, I meant a Pure Blood of Sanguinare Vampiris. One infected directly by Molag Bal. One who could transform."

Harkon seemed quiet now.

"I joined the Dawnguard because that Lord also killed one of my friends, before I reduced him to ash. But I never forgot the power of Blood Magic, power I want to wield. When I saw your daughter and her Scroll, I saw opportunity."

Sinewynn knelt before Harkon. "I have returned your daughter and Elder Scroll. I ask only for the opportunity to serve you, and wield the same power as you."

Harkon said nothing, he beckoned for Sinewynn to rise.

His skin began to ripple and turned red and black. The Altmer smiled, knowing what was coming next. Blood exploded out of Harkon and splattered the already blood-stained feast hall. Harkon took on the form of a Vampire Lord. He and Serana were probably the only two alive capable of transforming. He stood in all his glory, his skin white as ice with bat like wings spread proud across his back. "Behold! Is this the power you seek?"

"It is, my lord."

"I will give you my vampirism, and therefore the ability to wield Blood Magic, but it lies in the hands of Molag Bal to decide whether you will have the ability to take of this form."

"Then I pray he favours me." He moved his head to the side, exposing his neck.

Harkon's nodded and then in one swift movement he sank his fangs into Sinewynn's throat.

* * *

Skalrn reached Windhelm within three days of hard riding. He dismounted the horse, that looked as if it was about to drop dead at any moment. He tossed a small coin pouch to the stable owner and pushed through the ancient bronze gates. The sooner Miraak's blood decorated Dovahkriid the sooner Skalrn could enjoy not having the fate of Nirn rested on his shoulders for the first time since Jarl Balgruuf had asked the Harbringer to kill the Dragon attacking the Western Watchtower. As he made his way to the docks he felt the much more literal weight of the Elder Scroll on his back, strapped onto his armour since he used it to learn Dragonrend, not trusting the protection of the invaluable object to any sword other than his own.

He surveyed the docked boats, he had no way of telling which one was the Northern Maiden so decided to simply ask. He walked to the nearest boat and asked one of the workers. "Is this the Northern Maiden?" His rough and deeply Nordic accented voice made the young boy jump and almost drop his crates. He turned and recognised the famed warrior.

"Skalrn, Bane of Alduin, it is an honour to meet you... but this is not the ship you're looking for. Speak to Gjalund Salt-Sage."

Skalrn walked over to the man he had pointed at. "Gjalund?"

The man was sat on one of the barrels on his ship, drinking a bottle of mead. "If you want passage to Raven Rock you've come to the wrong person. I'm not going back to Solstheim"

"Why not?"

"It's not right... I don't remember leaving Raven Rock, and yet I'm here with no explanation!"

"Here is your explanation." Skalrn handed him the note he found on his attempted assassinator.

Gjalund read it, his expression horrified. "I swear to the Nine I had no part in this!"

"You did. Just not knowingly. It takes a powerful piece of magic to make someone do something and leave them with no recollection of doing it. This 'Miraak' is a threat that must be dealt with. You _will _take me to Solstheim or I will sail there myself with your head, and leave your body to rot on these docks."

"You can't threaten me! I'll-"

"You'll what? Get the town guard? You think that all the guards in Windhelm could save you from me, when Alduin's armies couldn't save him? Now, are you going to be sailing to Solstheim or Sovngarde? Take your pick."

His intimidation tactics worked and he was soon sailing towards Solstheim. He could see the great mountain of Vvardenfell, billowing out ash.

As they neared Solstheim they realised they weren't the only ship sailing on these waters. A convoy of at least seven large carrier ships that dwarfed their small Nord trade boat sailed past them. They were large Dunmer ships, sailing in formation. They sailed straight past the smaller vessel, ignoring it completely, there was no doubt that they had seen the Nord ship as they were close enough for Skalrn to see the crew.

The crew were a mixture of races. They were all working as if they were Dwemer automations, emotionless and silent. As they got nearer Skalrn saw that they had a faint blue glow to them. He silently made a disturbing realisation: they were all reanimated corpses.

It couldn't be good for crews of reanimated sailors were sailing from the Isle of Vvardenfell to Skyrim. Skalrn couldn't allow himself to be distracted though. He would find and kill Miraak then return home to Whiterun. Skalrn had gotten quite wealthy recently. He sold weapons, mainly swords, made from Dragonbone. The wealthiest of people from all over Tamriel paid tens of thousands of Septims to possess one of these blades. They were unmatched in sharpness by even Ebony or the Daedric weapons that were highly sought after. Only Skalrn possessed the skill to make them, as they were of his own design.

The last of the boats disappeared south-west, and simultaneously Solstheim appeared north-east. The southern part of the island was buried under ash-fall from Vvardenfell and was grey as a Dunmer's skin.

As they approached the island the port town of Raven Rock came into view. It was surrounded by high stone walls thicker than any walls in Skyrim, but the town itself was far less impressive. The banners of House Redoran, now faded by time, blew proud over small houses that resembled insects. The majority of each house was in fact under the ground. They were built that way to survive the harsh, ashy climate. The majority of ash storms formed outside of the city and broke against the thick walls, however.

The Nord trade ship pulled in to the port. "Here you are, Solstheim." Said Gjalund.

"Thank you." Skalrn tossed him a pouch containing 500 septims, twice what Gjalund usually charged.

He walked out onto the dock and breathed in. The air was thick with ash and dried his throat. He would be grateful of some good mead, or more likely here, one of the surprisingly good Dunmer drinks he enjoyed at the New Gnisis Cornerclub.

He reminded himself that he could drink as much as he wanted after Miraak was dealt with. Spurred on by the realisation he decided to begin asking about Miraak, someone would have to know where to find him...


	5. Chapter 5

Skalrn looked at the crumbling remains of the Temple of Miraak. His questioning of the townsfolk of Raven Rock had led him here. The broken skeletons of Dragons littered the slope leading up to the Temple, as Skalrn walked past them he felt the emptiness of their remains, their souls were gone. Only a true Dovah or a Dovahkiin could absorb a defeated Dragon's soul. That would mean Miraak was either Dragonborn as his followers had claimed, or he had persuaded Dragons to defend his Temple.

The Dragonborn shivered, not just from the cold wind, but wrapped his traveling cape around himself more tightly and approached on the looming ruin...

* * *

Sheogorath and Hircine circled each other, weapons drawn.

Hircine wielded his weapon, the Spear of the Hunter, a powerful spear that despite having the appearance of having a shaft made from simple oak and a head made from silver it was in fact probably one of the most powerful spears in existence. The head was made up of a triangular blade with a point perfect for thrusting and slashing. Branching of the primary blade was a thinner halberd-like blade that curved towards the shaft and could be used to deliver powerful axe-like chopping attacks or trap an enemy weapon.

Sheogorath's weapon was the Zweihander of Psychopathy, an enormous greatsword that was as tall as the Madgod himself, who was over seven foot. The blade of the Zweihander was brutal and jagged and at least six foot long. The hilt, grip and pommel were ornately engraved with faces twisted in agony. Blade, hilt, grip and pommel were made entirely of one piece of reforged and magically-hardened Madness Ore, a dark greenish-black stone with marble-like patterning on it.

Hircine attacked first; he feinted a low thrust and then thrust for Sheogorath's throat. The Madgod swung his greatsword with more speed than most could swing a longsword and parried the blow with a downward cut. He flicked his blade back up and would have decapitated The Huntsman of the Princes if he hadn't bent over backward and slid along the sand floor of the arena that they fought in. As he slid slashed at Sheogorath's back but he spun the Zweihander round over his shoulder and parried again.

Their clash was a blur of unnatural Daedric speed.

"The Spear will be mine, Sheogorath!" Snarled Hircine.

Hircine attacked again with a flurry of thrusts; Sheogorath adjusted his grip so he held the greatsword in one hand and matched Hircine's speed with his parries. He returned with a thrust of his own, which Hircine parried, then cut for the Huntsman's side. He leapt back. The Madgod pressed the attack and gripped his sword in two hands again. He swung with his full strength behind the greatsword, straight down for Hircine's head, which was a stag-skull with orbs of red light in the eye sockets. Hircine leapt back out of the reach of the six foot blade of the seven foot Zweihander with his unnatural Daedric agility, knowing he wouldn't be able to parry the strike. He instantly took advantage and thrust again but Sheogorath brought the blade back up and met the spear, pushing it up; it was now the Madgod's turn to take advantage of an opening and lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into Hircine, and sending him to the ground.

They were fighting in a neutrally owned piece of Oblivion that had a large arena built of it. The small sub-realm had been created by several of the princes, including the two that fought now, as a way for them to entertain themselves and settle disputes. The fights were fought on the terms of the combatants. As Daedric Princes couldn't truly be killed the fights were fought until one Prince's physical form was temporarily destroyed by the other Prince. They fought spear to greatsword, no magic, no enchantments; just skill of physical combat against skill of physical combat.

The new Sheogorath had come up with the idea two centuries ago based of an arena he fought in as a mortal. Hircine currently fought Sheogorath to reclaim the Spear of Bitter Mercy, which was stolen from him when a champion of the former Sheogorath was named for the Wild Hunt. Although the Ritual of the Hunt made the Huntsman immune to harm it did not protect him against his own spear. The champion had managed to evade the Huntsman and with the element of surprise on his side he had wrestled the Spear of Bitter Mercy from him and killed him with it. The champion offered it up to Sheogorath, who had given it to his champions since.

"You can do better than that!" The Madgod's voice was a mixture between the booming and deep voice that he had as a mortal and the joyful accented voice of Sheogorath.

Hircine snarled and rolled over, pulling himself up. Sheogorath began twirling his greatsword above his head. The Spear of the Hunter was a foot longer than the Zweihander of Psychopathy, but Sheogorath had managed to lunge within the weapon's reach with surprising agility for his massively muscular form.

"You're embarrassing yourself Hircine, I've fought sweetrolls more deadly than you!" Sheogorath chuckled. Hircine's knuckles whitened around his spear shaft at the insult. "Oh, you think I'm joking? You'd be surprised what I can create with Daedric Magic and food when I'm bored!"

The Huntsman back-flipped to put distance between him and his foe; he then leapt forward through the air, spinning around and twirling his spear as he flew and screaming in fury. The stroke he delivered as he landed would have shattered rock, split a stone like a pea, torn through Daedric armour like it was a sheet of parchment; but it did not break Sheogorath's block. The forced caused the Madgod to drop to one knee, bracing one hand against the flat of his blade. As the loud metallic clang rang out Sheogorath was sure even his blade would have been split like a twig if he hadn't magically-hardened the Zweihander within the Shivering Isle's core.

The Madgod slid the hand that he had braced against the blade down to the spear. Hircine, for all his speed, could not have pulled it up before the Daedric Prince of Madness had gripped the shaft with lightning reactions and a malicious smile. Knowing he had no way of pulling it free of the other Prince's grip, Hircine attempted to abandon his weapon, but the brutally jagged blade of the Zweihander had split him in half with a diagonal chop before his fingers were unclenched.

"Congratulations, brother!" Applauded Sanguine, one of Sheogorath's closest friends and a spectator of the duel. Sanguine took a form similar to a Dremora Lord; his skin was pale as appose to the ink-black skin of a Dremora and he wore no red war-paint but had angular features, curved horns, towering height and black robes. His eyes were two orbs of utter darkness that were flecked with dots of white light, looking like the sky of Tamriel at night. This demonic form was one of the many appearances of the Daedric Prince of Debauchery, and he changed them as often as mortal men would change their clothes.

Sheogorath's appearance was less demonic, he looked similar to the previous Daedric Prince of Madness with a few differences; he had retained his towering height and massive muscles with the soft tan of Cyrodiil; but he had changed his black hair to silver and his midnight blue irises to gold. His face was still handsome but was now softer and kinder with small wrinkles around his eyes. He wore purple and gold regalia, similar to his predecessor's, but devoid of frills and cuffs and with a sheath for his greatsword.

"How should we celebrate this victory, a drink perhaps?" Sanguine suggested as he descended the steps from the small viewing podium.

Before Sheogorath could answer Hircine reformed and rose. He wore simple furs and a stag-skull helm that was in fact his head. "You won." He stated, emotionless.

"Aye!" He handed Hircine his spear back. "You fought well, just not as well as I did."

"I can see that. Perhaps I will leave it a few years before I challenge you again, after all, I do have an eternity of tries to reclaim that spear." He seemed quite accepting of his defeat. Whatever else he was, Hircine was honourable.

"That's the spirit!" The Madgod patted The Huntsman on the back then turned and walked toward Sanguine, who now held a pair of ales.

"Here," Sanguine handed him one of the ales as Hircine disappeared back to his realm to hunt. "The Nords make good ale, I'll give 'em that. This particular one is from Solitude."

The two drinking caused a brief silence before Sheogorath spoke. "Pelly was King of Solitude…"

"Yes, I believe he was, for a time, what happened to him by the way? Pelagius would have made a fine citizen of Mania, but the last time I visited the Shivering Isles he was nowhere to be seen. Where is he?"

"Aetherius."

It seemed odd to Sanguine, as Sheogorath always spoke highly of Pelagius the Mad and the Aedra wouldn't have been able to take a soul belonging to a Daedric Prince by force. However, he had given up questioning the Madgod's decision making some time ago.

Sheogorath suddenly seemed manic with excitement, "Let's go and enjoy some more Nord Ale, served by Nords! And… CHEESE!"

"What are you suggesting?"

"TAMRIEL! I still have a gateway to the Niben of Cyrodiil! What do you say, brother; shall we go and drink all the ale and mead in every tavern in Skyrim; eat all the cheese, from cow to goat to bloody mammoth?" The Madgod sheathed his Zweihander and downed another ale.

"Have you ever known me to refuse a drink? But are you trying to tell me that you have had a portal that would allow you free roam of Tamriel to lie dormant since the Oblivion Crisis?"

"No, I'm telling you that I haven't let YOU use it since the Oblivion Crisis. That gate has somehow endured what all of Dagon's could not. MADNESS! I am not Mehrunes, however, I will not invade or destroy or allow others to do so…"

"That's honourable, but will you let me _invade _the tavern wenches?" Sheogorath's chuckle provided the only answer Sanguine needed and so the two Daedric Princes departed.

* * *

Frea's Stalhrim War Axe sunk through the Draugr's skull with a sickening noise. The creature fell back, its rotted head split in two, but was replaced by two more of the ferocious undead. The Skaal Shaman let out a hiss of frustration. She had been sent to the Temple of Miraak to attempt to free her people from Miraak's curse when the temple had opened. She was a capable warrior and had ventured in alone but was now regretting it. She currently stood in a large chamber with two sets of stairs leading up to thick iron doors.

One Draugr threw a clumsy but powerful downward stroke. She parried but was staggered backward by the blow. The other went for her side and struck her Nordic Carved armour, heavy armour made from thick overlapping plates made from quicksilver and steel. The rusted Ancient Nord Sword did not penetrate the armour but the force behind it staggered her again and she almost lost her balance.

It was her turn to press the attack now. She feinted a strike to the left and the Draugr took the bait; she span her war axe round and swung right, magically hardened ice going through rusted steel armour without hindrance. The next one attempted to attack again and lunged. She parried the blow and struck it in the chin with her elbow, and it was one of the Draugr's turns to be sent off-balance. Gripping her war axe in both hands she swung it through the long-dead neck and sent the head sailing through the air with a roar.

For a moment the battle was over, she had won. She panted with the effort of fighting through seven of the undead Nords since she entered the temple.

As she stepped to continue further more climbed out their large sarcophaguses. A small group, five perhaps charged at her. She parried, returned the blow, lashed out with her boot. Two fell, one returned to death, but three continued their assault.

A large greatsword was thrust into her gut as she blocked a smaller sword that would have opened her throat. She fell, screaming in agony, blood pouring from her abdomen.

The Skaal Shaman felt herself go cold as she lay in a rapidly growing pool of crimson on the cold hard stone of Miraak's Temple.

**_"YOL TOOR SHUL"_**

An explosion of flame consumed the for surviving Draugr as they closed in to finish the job.

Frea would have looked to see her saviour if she had the energy to move. As she felt the blackness of death close in a liquid was forced down her throat. She spluttered but as she felt her pain die down she realised it was a healing potion and eagerly opened her lips for more.

As the last drop ran down her throat the woman's eyes fluttered open.

She looked up at the face of her saviour. His beard and hair were as orange as the flame that had spurted out of his mouth mere moments ago and his eyes were as blue as the Stalhrim of Frea's war axe.

Skalrn offered a gauntleted hand and helped her up.

"Thank you, stranger."

"Don't mention it." The Dragonborn didn't look back, he just began walking toward the door that led deeper in.

"That was Thu'um, wasn't it?" She followed him, perhaps with his help she could stop whatever was happening to her people.

"Yes." His powerful arm flung the door open effortlessly.

Frea studied his armour as they began walking down a narrow passage. It was made from pieces of gigantic bone.

"How do you possess such power? And what manner of creature did you retrieve those bones from?"

"A Dragon, I am Dragonborn."

"You... you defeated Alduin! You are Skalrn the Fea-"

"Yes." He cut her off before she could list one of his countless titles.

"You are a man of few words." She observed.

"Actions speak louder than words."

She smiled at that. They soon reached another sarcophagus chamber. Soon enough Draugr rose out of them, more than before, but this time Frea was not afraid. The Dragonborn drew Dovahkriid.

Frea admired the longsword. The blade of the sword was in fact made up of two back to back single edged blades carved from Dragonbone and held together with a strip of Ebony decorated with a inscription written in Dovahzul Runes. The hilt was of similar design to the blade; it was made from two Dragon claws held together with rune-engraved Ebony. The grip itself was Dragonbone with bands of Ebony to provide additional grip and allowed either one or two hands to comfortably wield the blade. The pommel was Ebon-forged and decorated with an arrangement of six Dragon teeth gripped around a fiery orange gemstone that glowed as if it was a Mage's fireball spell in the flickering torchlight.

The first Draugr swung; Skalrn parried and exploited the opening this made, running his sword along its gut. Frea began fighting one, axe to axe, but quickly disposed of it in time to see Skalrn decapitate two more. They continued deeper into the ruined Temple. Skalrn's sword cut through Draugr like butter and his armour allowed him to shrug off blows.

With the quick dispatching of anything that got in their way they made quick progress through the deeper levels of the Temple. Skalrn did not slow the pace of his steps once. It wasn't before long that they reached a dead end. There was no door, no passage, no lever; just a large stone sarcophagus and multiple smaller sarcophaguses that most Draugr emerged from. Above the central Sarcophagus was a large Dragon skeleton, bone wings spread wide.

Skalrn stopped Frea from advancing with the flat of his blade.

"What is it?" She asked.

"A trap." Skalrn walked out to the centre of the room and spoke in Dovahzul;

**_"__Alok dilon, dii zahkrii saran!__"_**

Frea shuddered, and even though she did not understand what he said she recognised that it was a challenge.

The Draugr also did, and the sarcophaguses were thrown open by undead hands. Skalrn counted eight Draugr and one powerful Draugr Deathlord that had emerged from the stone sarcophagus.

**_"FUS RO DAH"_**

Skalrn unleashed the first shout he had learnt, and one of his most powerful. The blast of pure force blasted the Deathlord to pieces. He slashed mercilessly at the other eight, his armour deflecting their blows against him.

Skalrn turned and noticed that the back of the stone sarcophagus was in fact a large door.

**_"BEX"_**

The shout blasted the door open, revealing the deepest darkest depths of the Temple of Miraak. The air through there was thick with a damp green fog and smelt strange. It was not the decaying smell of the rest of the Temple, but something... deeper. As he stepped forward he heard a disembodied voice; a voice that he had heard before, back when he found the Elder Scroll on his back and, by accident, the Oghma Infinium.

_"You are close, my champion." _Murmured Hermaeus Mora in his slow, sad tone.


End file.
